purpose

The years since my husband, Todd, was diagnosed with ALS have been hard for both of us, not only physically but also emotionally. I don’t think there’s a way to overcome the grief that accompanies a disease that causes ongoing loss, but we’ve found ways to live with it.

My husband, Todd, and I enjoy watching chickadees flit from a feeder that hangs from a mountain ash tree behind our house to one of the branches, where they crack the shells and eat the sunflower seeds. “Let Comet out,” Todd told me one morning. “There’s a squirrel in the…

“And you may find yourself living in a shotgun shack … And you may ask yourself, ‘Well, how did I get here?’ … Letting the days go by, same as it ever was.” Although I’m not proud of it, my life, pre-ALS, was largely a fortunate stream of autopilot idleness.

Last week, I went to the doctor to get a problem with my ear checked out. The medical assistant went through a list of screening questions. The last was, “Are you depressed?” Tears welled up in my eyes. “Yeah, I’m depressed. My husband is terminally ill.” “I’m sorry,” she said.

I have ALS. That awareness has prompted a series of rapid-fire questions. While many of us would describe existence as being comprised of multiple chapters, I now have two distinctly different lives. Prior to ALS, I had led an unremarkable life largely characterized by good fortune. Some of…